trying to dig up some more information on that dog and Maddie S—” I stopped myself, because I didn’t feel like I could muster enough spit on such a hot day. “—and local witch legends. Might help if we knew for sure what we’re getting into tracking the dog.”
“Good idea.” Marty set off down the street. “Follow me.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I glanced over my shoulder. Even though I no longer saw Mrs. Brewster, I still got the feeling she watched us. I felt the weight of her eyes.
Her witching eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CROOKED HILLS LIBRARY a quaint, Victorian-style house with the local Post Office. Except for the hand-painted sign out front, the building looked like any other house on the block, surrounded by a white picket fence and blooming flower gardens. We opened the gate—the hinges squeaked—and walked down the brick walkway. Marty waved to a woman tending the gardens.
“Hi, Mrs. Trilby.”
“Hello there, Martin.” Mrs. Trilby never looked up from her gardening. She wore a floppy hat, and shade covered her face. She drove a sharp hand spade into the earth and rooted up stones and weeds. She must have recognized my cousin’s voice. “I trust you’re behaving yourself this summer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marty said, taking the steps to the front door of the library two at a time. “See you around.”
“Good seeing you.” She drove the spade into the earth, rooting up rocks and clods of dirt. “And nice meeting you, Charlie.”
How does she know my name?
“Who was that?” I asked as we entered the library.
“She teaches English at my school. During the summer, she does odd jobs around town, usually something to do with gardening. She’s got a green thumb, I guess. She’s pretty much my favorite teacher, but she’s a little peculiar.”
I was starting to believe everyone in Crooked Hills was a little off-center, Marty included.
“She knew my name.”
“Well, yeah. I introduced you.”
“No, you didn’t. She never even looked at me, but she knew my name.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Marty said. “Word travels pretty fast in such a small town. She probably heard you were visiting from some busybody or another. Either that or—”
“Or what?”
“Well, she claims to have been raised by Gypsies. Says she can read fortunes and predict the future. I always figured she just said that stuff to make her students more interested, but you never know.”
A fortune-telling teacher? Marty was probably right. She probably just heard I was visiting and guessed who I was. Nothing magical about that. Why would someone who could predict the future waste their time teaching? I’d be playing the lottery, myself.
The portion of the house dedicated to the Crooked Hills Post Office amounted to little more than a glass-topped display case full of stamp books, a leaning tower of cardboard boxes and unruly envelopes destined for who knows where, and a metal desk bell marked with a handwritten sign reading “ring for service.” Behind the counter, the Postmaster leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked above his round belly, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his mouth hanging open as he snored. A fat green fly circled around his head, occasionally lighting on his lips. The Postmaster stirred when the fly landed, not waking but smacking his lips like a Venus flytrap snapping at prey.
Marty held his hand over the ringer and looked at me, the sides of his mouth curling devilishly. If he slapped the bell, he’d likely scare the napping Postmaster so bad he’d out of his chair.
I shook my head and mouthed, “no.”
Marty pursed his lips as if to say “you’re no fun,” but he moved his hand away from the bell.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The rest of the house was filled with books, stacked along the hallway walls, covering the steps leading upstairs, and piled two or three books deep on the mismatched shelves. A
“Good idea.” Marty set off down the street. “Follow me.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I glanced over my shoulder. Even though I no longer saw Mrs. Brewster, I still got the feeling she watched us. I felt the weight of her eyes.
Her witching eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CROOKED HILLS LIBRARY a quaint, Victorian-style house with the local Post Office. Except for the hand-painted sign out front, the building looked like any other house on the block, surrounded by a white picket fence and blooming flower gardens. We opened the gate—the hinges squeaked—and walked down the brick walkway. Marty waved to a woman tending the gardens.
“Hi, Mrs. Trilby.”
“Hello there, Martin.” Mrs. Trilby never looked up from her gardening. She wore a floppy hat, and shade covered her face. She drove a sharp hand spade into the earth and rooted up stones and weeds. She must have recognized my cousin’s voice. “I trust you’re behaving yourself this summer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marty said, taking the steps to the front door of the library two at a time. “See you around.”
“Good seeing you.” She drove the spade into the earth, rooting up rocks and clods of dirt. “And nice meeting you, Charlie.”
How does she know my name?
“Who was that?” I asked as we entered the library.
“She teaches English at my school. During the summer, she does odd jobs around town, usually something to do with gardening. She’s got a green thumb, I guess. She’s pretty much my favorite teacher, but she’s a little peculiar.”
I was starting to believe everyone in Crooked Hills was a little off-center, Marty included.
“She knew my name.”
“Well, yeah. I introduced you.”
“No, you didn’t. She never even looked at me, but she knew my name.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Marty said. “Word travels pretty fast in such a small town. She probably heard you were visiting from some busybody or another. Either that or—”
“Or what?”
“Well, she claims to have been raised by Gypsies. Says she can read fortunes and predict the future. I always figured she just said that stuff to make her students more interested, but you never know.”
A fortune-telling teacher? Marty was probably right. She probably just heard I was visiting and guessed who I was. Nothing magical about that. Why would someone who could predict the future waste their time teaching? I’d be playing the lottery, myself.
The portion of the house dedicated to the Crooked Hills Post Office amounted to little more than a glass-topped display case full of stamp books, a leaning tower of cardboard boxes and unruly envelopes destined for who knows where, and a metal desk bell marked with a handwritten sign reading “ring for service.” Behind the counter, the Postmaster leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked above his round belly, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his mouth hanging open as he snored. A fat green fly circled around his head, occasionally lighting on his lips. The Postmaster stirred when the fly landed, not waking but smacking his lips like a Venus flytrap snapping at prey.
Marty held his hand over the ringer and looked at me, the sides of his mouth curling devilishly. If he slapped the bell, he’d likely scare the napping Postmaster so bad he’d out of his chair.
I shook my head and mouthed, “no.”
Marty pursed his lips as if to say “you’re no fun,” but he moved his hand away from the bell.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The rest of the house was filled with books, stacked along the hallway walls, covering the steps leading upstairs, and piled two or three books deep on the mismatched shelves. A
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